


Digging my nails under the cracks of your face

by Quiet_Constellation



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Post 4.17, Sexual Content, Slight Canon Divergence, listen I don't like cheating and I don't condone it but this had to be written, they live in my mind rent free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24402814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Constellation/pseuds/Quiet_Constellation
Summary: It starts out with a kiss.Then another. And another, until all she can feel are hands roaming all over her body, desperately clinging to her.She should be surprised. She should feel the need to push him away. She doesn’t.----Post 4x17. Set directly after THAT kiss (They just don't stop)
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Betty Cooper
Comments: 9
Kudos: 105





	Digging my nails under the cracks of your face

**Author's Note:**

> This is largely [perfectlystill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill)'s fault and by that I mean, thanks!

It starts out with a kiss. 

Then another. And another, until all she can feel are hands roaming all over her body, desperately clinging to her.

She should be surprised. She should feel the need to push him away. She doesn’t.

All she can think is _God,_ _I want more_.   
And he seems to want more of her. His hands are sliding across her back, bringing her closer, trying to annihilate the distance between them. 

She kisses his jaw. He sighs.    
He licks the crook of her neck. She moans.

She should stop him. This is bad enough as it is. They’re both dating other people, but somehow that’s not enough of a reason to stop, because Archie wants her, and she  _ still _ wants him back. 

_ He was hers, first, _ she reasons as she pulls his tee-shirt over his head.    
_ She was his, first, _ she bites her lips when his hand slips into her jeans. 

She could still stop him. They haven’t done anything ye—

Her head rolls back, and a moan escapes her lips.

_ Too late, _ she thinks as she watches a smug grin paint itself across his lips. Too late, she concedes when she lets herself fall on his couch. 

She’d always thought her first time with him would be sweet, fingers fumbling to unclasp her bra, soft kisses on her lips, and intertwined hands. 

It’s nothing like that. It’s raw, urgent. Overdue.

Her hair tie slips out, and he tosses it aside with one hand before grabbing a fistful of her hair, his breath hot on her neck. 

It feels wrong. Electric.

But they don’t stop. They can’t stop, or whatever moment they’re sharing right now will inevitably implode, leaving them with shrapnels of guilt and pain.

She just wants to pretend.

Pretend that she’s fifteen, and feels the heat pool inside her for the first time when he grins at her from the football field.    
Pretend that she’s sixteen, that he doesn’t break her heart twice in one night.   
Pretend that she’s seventeen, and their kiss in his car amounts to something else than his terrified face as she buries him alive.

Today, they’re eighteen, and every kiss feels like falling in love. Every moan is stolen, to be stored away safely in a corner of her mind. She keeps her eyes shut, she doesn’t want to see his face. She can’t stomach it, the desire, the tenderness that she’ll see shining in his eyes.

“Betty,” he starts, and she nods, her eyes still closed.

“Betty.”

“Look at me, please,” he begs, and she does.

His forehead is sticky with sweat, his hair a mess. And he’s looking at her like she hung the moon. She looks away.

He kisses her jawline, and she bucks her hips against his. 

She’s not proud of it. But she can’t stop now. 

Not when she can feel him, hard, against her.   
Not when she’s so close, with his fingers curled inside her.

“Is this...?” He says, and she wonders how he’s going to finish that sentence.

_ Is this what you want?  _

_ Is this okay? _

_ Is this something we’re going to regret? _

She opens her mouth.   
“More,” she begs, because she knows, deep down.

He’s never been able to refuse her anything. He kisses her again, and her hands fumble with his zipper.    
He moans. A soft sound, softer than she could have ever imagined him to be, and it sets her lungs on fire.

* * *

This is wrong.

This is all kinds of wrong. 

She’s not his, and he’s not hers.

There are three people on his mind.   
There’s Veronica, there’s Jughead.

And then there’s Betty.

Soft, kind, perfect Betty, with her tight ponytail, her modest sweaters, and her easy smiles.    
Soft, kind, perfect Betty, who bites into his lower lip, and guides him towards her hips.

She’s begging him, and he can’t say no to her.

Not when he’s wanted her for so long. Not when he’s spent his last three years of high school repressing his feelings, pushing them so far down that they’re now spilling everywhere, making a mess of things.

She looks at him, and she’s neither soft, kind, or perfect.

Her eyes are dark, her cheeks are flushed, hair everywhere around her, and he understands now.

He was never meant to wait until he was perfect for her. They’re both tainted by the town, stained by its dark side; He’s not the same boy who offered to marry her when they were kids, and was so sure to do it again when they’d turn eighteen.

There are things he craves, things he’s been yearning for at night, and he’s tired of denying himself.

So he gives in.

It still feels off, somehow.

But they were never meant to do it like that, in between fights with Jughead and Veronica, on his dirty couch, in his garage.

They should have been in his bed, softly kissing after an afternoon spent in the sun doing homework. 

They should have been each other’s firsts. 

And he shouldn’t know how to press himself against her, or where to put his hands. She shouldn’t know what kind of rhythm feels good, or that he likes it when she pulls his hair.

They’re not each other’s firsts.

He’s messed up along the way, and they’re just trying to fix it.

She tears up when she comes undone, and he hates that it tips him over the edge, seeing her like this, knowing he’s responsible for it. He’s never felt that good, or that awful at the same time. 

Stars dance against his closed eyes while pain claws at his chest. They collapse together, and she breathes into his neck.

He hates himself. He hates that they did this, that they went through with it, that he now knows what she looks like when she comes, and most of all, he hates that he doesn’t regret it at all.

That he’d do it again, that he wants to do it again, and quite possibly forever.

“Are you alright? Did you—” he asks, breathless.   
“Yeah,” she replies.

There’s a stillness around them, like the world is holding its breath, waiting for them to fully realize the horror of what they’ve just done.

He’s never been a cheater. He’s a one girl kind of guy. Always has. He’s promised himself he wouldn’t be like that, like the parts of his dad he doesn’t like thinking about. 

Her fingers start following the trail of hair down his stomach, and something stirs in him.

He wants her, again. He wants her in his bed, in his shower, on the carpeted floor of her childhood bedroom.

This was the dumbest thing they could have done.    
He thought he was putting out a fire, but he’d just stoked the flames. 

“Betty,” he says.    
“I know,” she replies. “ I just want to live in this for a little bit longer.”

Her voice sounds impossibly sad, like something broke inside of her, and he gets it, because he feels like something broke inside of him, too.

This is all his fault. 

He’s the one who kissed her —  _ she met him halfway,  _ a voice says in the corner of his mind.   
He’s the one who touched her, first —  _ and she begged him for more. _ _  
_ He’s the one who rejected her. 

Because he’d been selfish. Because he’d been scared, a boy, eager to start anything as long as it wasn’t real. He’d been scared of her love, scared to lose her, and he’d realized way too late that she wasn’t going to be waiting for him on the sidelines, and he’d lost her anyway.

He doesn’t want to lose her again.    
He wants her by his side. He wants her laughing at his jokes like she does  _ his,  _ kissing his cheek when he wins a game. Sitting on his lap when he writes songs about their love, and softly saying his name as she buries herself in his arms.

He adores her.   
He still isn’t good enough for her, not by a landslide. But he wants her anyway.

He kisses her like he wished he’d done that night, before Cheryl’s closet, before Veronica. Soft, shy. Open.

“Ask me again,” he says, and there’s a flicker in her eyes. An understanding.

She leans in, her forehead resting against his.   
“Do you love me?”   
“Yes.”   
“Do you love me?” He replies, his voice wavering.

She bites back tears, and there’s a lump in his throat.   
“Yes.”

She kisses him, and he can taste the salt on their lips.

He holds her close, carrying her all the way to his bedroom.

He’s lucky his mom isn’t home.

This time they make love. Like they’re meant to, with him kissing her tears away, letting his fingers dance on her body, barely grazing her.

She’s precious, she’s his best friend. She’s Betty.

He kisses her stomach, her hips, her inner thighs. Her breath is shaky, and he looks at her with a silent question in his eyes. She nods, and laces their fingers together, nails digging into the back of his hand when he places a soft, sweet kiss between her thighs. 

She tastes like both of them. Like shame, desire, and love. He feels a hand gently pressing on the top of his head, and he smiles against her.

He touches her, his fingers feather-light, music notes matching the soft moans coming out of her.

She’s beautiful when she’s unraveling, and he wants her undone. 

His name falls out of her lips, like a prayer.   
His brain stops functioning after that.

* * *

She takes it, his love, his mouth, his tongue. She takes all of it. And then she wants more.

She takes his hand, gently, bringing his fingers to her mouth.

They’re bruised by the boxing, calloused by the chords.   
They taste like him, like her, bittersweet and deep and  _ God, she wants more _ . 

It’s not enough, feeling him inside her, holding him in her arms. They were never meant to be two.   
He’s as much part of her as she’s part of him, and it wrecks her completely. 

She’s denied it, to Kevin. To Veronica, to Jughead. Even to him, but when she’s naked under him, there are no lies she can hide under.

She loves Jughead. 

But she  _ craves _ Archie. He’s in her diaries, her pictures, her soul, her veins. He’s the air she breathes, and the water she drinks. 

It’s daunting, and it’s unsafe.

It terrifies her. She needs security, she needs someone who knows the darkest parts of her, and accepts them. That’s what Jughead does for her. He’s  _ safe _ , in his way.

Archie’s a wild card. A smile from him and her blood pressure spikes up. A touch of his lips and she throws caution to the wind. And he always. Always. Always sees the best in her, and it’s exhausting. 

_ Can’t he see?  _

She doesn’t deserve him. She’s selfish, and she’s mean, and she’s wrong for him.

She pushes him against the mattress, sitting on his lap before kissing her way down his torso. 

His breath itches the lower she goes, and he lets out a soft moan when she drops down.   
He tilts her chin towards him, looking at her with concern.

“Betty, no,” he says, and she tries to not let it sting.    
“You don’t want me to?’ she replies, a little cooly. A little sad.

He hides his face in his hands.   
“It’s not that, it’s just… you’re so—“

She chews on the inside of her cheek.   
“Perfect?”   
“Yeah.”

She sits up. He _ still _ refuses to see her, and she needs him to.

“Archie. Arch,” she adds, a little softer, gently pushing his hand away from his face.

He looks at her. He’s blushing. Archie Andrews is blushing.

_ God, he’s beautiful.  _

She takes a deep breath.   
“I’m not perfect. If I were, we wouldn’t be there.”   
“Right,” he nods.

She tilts her head.   
“So, do you not want me too?”

He mutters something against the back of his hand, and she frowns.   
“What was that? I couldn’t hear.”

“I said I want it. I want it  _ too _ much, that’s the issue.”

_ Oh _ . Oh.

It’s her turn to blush this time. 

She’s not used to this side of him. To the ache she sees reflected in his eyes, and what it means to feel desired by him. It’s  _ intoxicating _ . 

She lowers her head, carefully taking him in.    
The sound that comes out of his mouth is ungodly. 

She lets her tongue run alongside him, and he lowers his hand, his fingers entangling themselves into her hair, soft moans escaping his lips here and there.

He’s looking at her with heavy eyelids, flushed cheeks, and she _ knows _ he sees her now.

Soft, perfect Betty wouldn’t be doing this.   
Soft, perfect Betty wouldn’t cheat on her boyfriend with her best friend.   
Soft, perfect Betty wouldn’t wipe her mouth with one hand. 

His thumb strokes the side of her cheek, gently, and she looks up.   
“I love you,” he whispers, half a confession, half a cry. 

So soft. So fragile.   
She wants to shatter him.

She wants to shatter him, and build him back up, build until no one can tell where he starts and where she ends.

“I love you too.”

He guides her head back to his, and kisses her deeply, in a way that can only be understood as primal, possessive. 

She’s  _ his _ . She’s always been his, and she’ll always be.

They can feel guilty tomorrow, in the light of day.   
In the meantime, they make the most of it.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
